


My Funny Valentine

by MadameBizarre



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Desk Sex, Detective Noir, Dirty Talk, F/M, Film Noir, Finger Sucking, How many fucken fics are titled after this song I assume a shitton, Office Sex, Pre-War, Sensuality, Sole gets to be fucked by Synth Nick in pre-war Nick's memory body, Vaginal Fingering, blowjob, human nick, human nick valentine - Freeform, its synth nick but a memory of human nick, memory sex, pre-war memory, whats a little Memory altering gonna do?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 10:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11872224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameBizarre/pseuds/MadameBizarre
Summary: An unexpected breach in Nick Valentine's pre-war memories ends up with memory altering sex, or alternatively: the Sole Survivor ogles the rugged and handsome human Nick Valentine.





	My Funny Valentine

 The streets are littered with bodies and trash, the wind hitting both with one long billow before settling down; flyers go swifting away, coat lapels bend back, and hats are held down by their owners (albeit a few go in the wind and hands follow to capture them). It’s a typical day in the Boston Fall weather, with barely a soul to pay attention to it’s beauty as they walk up and down, to and fro, on the crowded sidewalks, down through jampacked streets, busy with their own business. No one marvels at the leaves as they dance off the branches of rustling trees, their colors a myriad of warm hues(reds, browns, oranges twirling together only to be trampled with no second thought). There is nothing special about today, a Thursday night that has left Marisol near Fenway Park with nothing in particular to do…

No, that’s not right, she _does_ have something to do, or more accurately _someone_ to attend to. She mingles into the bustling sidewalk, unable to slip by anyone with her curvy body; a hand touches her ass, she scratches with her almond-shaped nails. Women huff, men blush, and they apologize though it is her own fault that her swaying hips smacks their own. There is no rush to get by, but that does not mean it’s safe -- this is is Boston after all, and when the night falls, the monsters call. The odd thing is that she can not see a single face, only general details of the passers who do not even give her second look unless pushed by her buxom body; curly hair here and there, fedoras pulled down over eyes, shadows lurking under every nook and cranny of a face. This is odd. This isn’t...real.

She makes it to the tall building, seven stories high with the core being a liquor store plus deli. She walks to the flight of stairs beside the store’s entrance and is in a small lobby. A large square of mailboxes line the right wall, a front desk with a no one behind it is ahead to the left not eight feet away, and where the round half-desk begins, two sets of elevators are beside it. It’s cozy and kind of jampacked enough that her heels echo as she ignores the second tower of steps to her left and head straight for the elevators. Pressing the up arrow and awaiting the carriage she takes a glance to the five-by-six square of mailboxes. Only one reads _‘Valentine’_ in cursive and marker.

The trip up is a tad shaky (they really have to fix that) so when the elevator dings and the doors take a second to open, she is glad to step out on solid ground. Now in a hallway of doors Marisol doesn’t bother to check the others out, nor take in the scenery here -- the floor is dirty, the walls kind of grimy, it’s paint chipped, and the wood darkened with what could be old water damage. No, instead she looks up to the door and reads the words:

                          

 

And just below that is the address, office number, and email. All on a textured glass window that skew the brown blinds that are pulled down; squinting just a bit she see’s there are fine white lines making a checkered pattern on the glass as well.

Her hand is on the door handle without a second thought, opening it to a dimly lit room that is basked  in the moonlight and street lamps outside the window across the room. A dingy bulb from the ceiling fan gives little view of the figure standing by the window -- seemingly busy in his thoughts. It gives time to inspect the office, compact and a tad stuffy. A bookcase to her left is filled to the brim with books and little knick knacks: a few signed baseballs, a toy airplane, sticky notes hanging off  the ledges, and dust. To her right are a few shelves with no rhythm to their position. Some photo frames stand on them, a few have medals and trophies, a stuffed teddy bear sits next to a miniature Giddyup-Buttercup and orange haired clown; more photographs are pinned to the walls around them, smiling faces gleaming towards her of who she just knows are not only family members and friends, but clients whose cases have been closed successfully. Childish drawings also join in with ‘Thank You Mister Valentine!’ scrawled all over them with crudely drawn hearts.

She lets the door shut on it’s own weight, the sound catching his attention but not turning his head. He takes a sip from his shot glass, she walks off the wooden floorboards and onto the beat up rug -- standing next to the single chair. Hazel eyes scan his desk where the plaque says his name and a long hightower lamp sits above it. Files are disorganized, a stress ball is scrunched into an oblong shape, the green matt underneath has pen marks when it shouldn’t, and the opened bottle of whiskey teeters at it’s edge alongside an extra shot glass. She knows for a fact that the picture frame off to the farthest corner is of Jennifer Lands -- his _ex-_ fiance. Her dazzling smile of pearly whites, thin red lips glistening in the camera’s flash, round blue eyes where no crinkles curl, and short blonde hair tied up in a fashionable style. She is the opposite of how Marisol looks -- she’s absolutely lovely.

A shimmer of jealousy races in her heart, but she knows better than to let it grow. She knows what happened to Jenny and how it hurt him, thus it is petty of her to feel such cruel emotions towards a _dead_ woman who had meant so much to him.. She turns her hazel eyes away from the photo and towards the man, taking in his features alit under the moonlight.

A hard jawline, pouty thin lips pulled up in a content smile, brunette hair speckled with many a strand of grey, and sharp cheekbones that were square in shape. He finally turns to her and she see’s his eyes, Sharp, haggard with age and late-night work, a piercing blue that puts the sky above to shame; his face is brushed with age lines and tired bags. If she has to place it, Marisol would say he’s perhaps forty with all those grey locks and wrinkles. He’s nothing less than handsome, the all-American rugged man you see in films. The trope detective at it’s finest.

“Doll? What’re doing here?” The surprise is evident as thicks brows furrow and his blue gaze shines.

She  instantly wants to play, pouting her lips -- plump and matted blood-red; She can feel the moonlight steak against her eyes and she hopes it brings out their almond shape and hazel color. “You expecting someone else?”

His eyes follow the little sway of her shoulders, following down the length of her arm atop of the chair, looking completely like the playful little imp she is. “No, no -- I wasn’t expectin’ anyone. This is one of Pre-war Nick’s memories.”

“Gazing out the window?”

“It’s one of his last ones where he was...relaxed.” When Jenny was alive and his everything. He doesn’t have to say it, the way he skirts his eyes towards the desk (the picture) in a melancholy expression says it all -- even his grip on the shot glass tightens a tad, knuckles flexing under the taut skin.

She wasn’t expecting this either, if anything she feels sorry for intruding on this memory, but it’s already happening. She can make this a happy situation again with a little femme fatale magic.

“M’sorry Valentine, I wasn’t counting on us meeting in a memory like this.” She takes a seat, movements sensual as she slides in front of the chair and fixes her dress so it does not bunch up. He faces her once more, his sad droopy eyes looking her over again, hot gaze roaming up and down her legs that crossed one knee over the other, and down to her pointed heels that are lost in the shadows.

“Don’t worry too much of it doll, ain’t no one’s fault. Don’t even remember why we’re in the memory den either.”

“A little down time, perhaps the doc hooked us up together. A tad fuzzy for me too.”

Nick pushes his shoulder off the wall to make his way closer and she is hypnotized at his movements. His frame is burly and beefy, a head shorter than the average man’s height, but that is still taller than her -- even in heels. The sleeves of his dress shirt are folded past his elbows to show the wisps of hair over thick forearms; his suspenders bend over his shoulders with a holster hanging under one armpit -- glock catching a shine of moonlight; two buttons are undone on his shirt and she finds herself stuck staring at strands of hair there as well. His slacks leave much to the imagination unfortunately, but his belt screams for her fingers to nab it for the prize.

“Maybe, but we should be careful, don’t wanna mess up our memories.” He’s by the chair’s armrest, still holding his half-empty glass, finding interest in the plaque on his desk.

Her slim fingers reach up and brush against his -- thick, calloused, more than able to engulf her own -- and she gently takes the glass out of his grip. She delivers it into her other hand to drink with, but her touch lingers on his, raised and  smoothing a thumb over his hard knuckles -- eyes looking up to him in the angle and position she _knows_ will drive him nuts.

His skin is heated, her’s is soothing ; _this is how I look below you, sucking your cock.._

The contents of the glass are gone. She leans over to set it down on the desk, never leaving his gaze, pulling it alongside her. “I think if we messed up one teensy, little memory there won’t be any harm…” Lips curl into a mischievous little grin, showing off her pearly whites.

His hand is lowered down to her lips, pressing the rough texture of his fingers over their shape, leaving no mark. They slide across until his thumb is pressing against the tip of  her cupid’s bow and where it follows on her bottom lip; the pad of his finger is soft and textured with his print. Marisol teasingly takes it between her teeth, watching him like a hawk. The rest of his fingers curl under her chin, his eye hooded with lust.

“Maybe you're right...maybe you're wrong...we won’t know ‘til we try.” His smirk alights her body into flames and he knows it by the way her eyes obviously widen and grin falls ever so slightly -- struck with delightful shock.

In the next moment her shoulders are shaking with laughter and he leans down to kiss her, pulling her face to meet his, thumb slipping out from between her teeth and pulling her bottom lip down before meeting them with his. His mouth may be slim, but neigh are they meager, plumpness all in the pout of them. Always the gentleman he gives a simple kiss that turns into a dozen more until he lets his neediness get the best of him, taking her bottom lip with his whenever they part; she happily lets Nick do as he pleases as she does the same with his groin --  fingers pressing against the hardness underneath his slacks and letting her nails roll over it. Her hand supinates, cupping the bulge to softly knead and squeeze it. He groans deep from within his throat, vibrating into her mouth. When he pulls away to allow them to breathe his tongues slips against her bottom lip then flicks up to her upper one, earning a shaky sigh from her from the slow lick.

He squeezes her chin in his grip as he tips her head up further and  leans over. His other hand curls over her jaw and ear, pulling her closer so he can take her whole mouth,  tongue sliding against her’s -- demanding and needy for the pleasure. Her palm and thumb rub up and down his erection, both moaning into the kiss. A whimper follows a small choke as his tongue fills her mouth -- trapping her own. Rough and heated as his thumb caresses her cheek, Marisol’s already crossed thighs squeeze together, sending an electric shock of pleasure shooting through her core and erupting into her chest.

When he pulls away it's with a wet noise that sends a shiver down her spine. Heavy pants, loud gulps, the twinkle of saliva connecting between their abused lips. Nick moves, knee kicking her upper leg off the other so it can slide between her blazing thighs, push against her damp panties under the dress. His frame is so sturdy, like a beautiful Greek sculpture.

“Put those lips to better use darlin’.”

She doesn’t have to be told twice. Her hands act dainty as they pull the belt out of it’s buckle, smiling up towards him. He knows exactly what she’s playing at and reaches into his pocket, grabbing the carton of cigarettes so he can light one up. The metal clink and jangle of a buckle, his lighter flicks open and stutters up a flame, fabric shifts as she pulls the button open and down to reach her hand into his boxers. She’s never seen him with a dick before, The Institute hadn’t endowed him with one, so this is new for her to witness. She isn’t let down as she feels the warm touch of pre-war Nick’s hard-on, pulling it free from his underwear; it’s thick and rock hard, the sinewy veins on it reminding her of Synth-Nick’s wiring she would be tugging on by now. It’s nothing to laugh about either, and she bats her lashes quite a few times  at his girth -- in every sense does his cock says ‘ _this is a man, not some boy’_.

Marisol sets her ‘innocent’ gaze up, watching as the shadows wash over his hard brow and the only light is from the orange embers of his lit cigarette. Smoke wafts about his face and she can see his toothy smile. “Don’t go gettin’ cold feet on me, you have to take responsibility for what you cause.”

“You better take one last huff of that little stick _Valentine_ , it’s gonna be the last steady one you have.”

And he does, turning his head away as he puffs it all out. His body stiffens instantly, muscles rippling under his button up. His hips give a curt buck -- her lips kiss up from the falling curve of his length to the edge of it’s head. When he presses forward so suddenly, she licks her tongue against it (pink in contrast to her dark lipstick).

“S-Sorry doll, it’s been awhile.”

He doesn’t need to apologize, she understands -- he isn’t used to having a cock in so long. She swirls saliva in her mouth and parts her lips, hot breath enveloping his length, showing off the wet cavern of her mouth. She can see his jaw tighten by the sight, bringing the cigarette up to his lips. She pouts her lips over the tip, licking her tongue over the slit, tasting saltiness in it’s wake. Nick lets a shaky moan escape, then he downright growls when she takes her first inch of him past her lips. She can only guess how it must feel, sitting comfortably between and atop her plump lips, with her tongue pressing flat and licking over the head of his erection. His fingers around the cigarette twitches and he inhales loudly. She chokes down half the size, a swallowing sound following. He coughs, smoke choking out with each heave of his shoulders -- she _did_ warn him. His free hand combs through her wavy hair, finding a firm place to grip.

Marisol begins to move her head, torturously lifting up and away, leaving a wet, sticky trail of thick spit and precome behind. Their eyes lock, anticipation gleaming in his eyes,  unable to bring his smoke to his lips again. Slowly, from the tip of his cock, she descends once more, and rises again, and lowers once more, beginning a steady bob of her head; one hand curls three fingers around his base, gracefully sliding up and down where her lips do not curl around, while her other steadies above his hip, under the shirt to touch his warming flesh (hard and rough like the rest of him). His grin is there again, joined by a satisfied sigh, then a puff smoke. His hips rocks with her, easing more and more down her throat and earning a dozen little wet slurps. Her thighs squeeze around his knee, her ache demanding _something_ to rut against, but he does little, only presses against her core. Her hips gyrate as little as they can in the seat, only making her starving lust have little of what it desires.

Nick’s hand helps her pull off his erection and push down into the back of her throat -- gagging her. Such a sound is the lewdest he has ever heard, causing him to chuckle.

“ _Danm_ is your mouth talented. Can you keep going.”

Her eyes shine up to him, cheeks flushed and tears prickling at the corners as his cock stretches her lips. Yes, she can hold back the reflex, but her sex is _throbbing_ . She nods on his cock , bringing her other hand to lace together with the one at his pelvis, curling them around him and pumping upwards every time her lips pull off. He curses, baring his teeth in a snarl of ecstasy just how she likes; his breath is heavy, chest heaving with every little groan and gasp that vibrates down his powerful body. She can taste his heady sweat on her tongue, bitter and salty as he stretches her lips. His scent is dizzying, laced with cigarettes, whiskey, and strong cologne that sends some sort of animalistic desire to _devour_ him through her boiling veins.

An inhale of smoke, the tilt of his head upwards, the release of a big puff. “Fuck _me_ babe.”

And it continues like so for another few minutes: her nose hitting the curl of his happy trail, fingers pumping up and down with her sucking,  his hips thrusting himself between her lips as he fucks her face. Finally, with a cry that tells her he is going to release soon, she uses her strength to _pop_ off his cock, then inspects the damage. Her spit covers it in a luminous sheen that catches in the moonlight spilling from behind him; his jaw is set tight, the flush over his cheeks noticeable. The cigarette is crumpled between his fingers, having become a stub that he now rubs out on the desk.  Arousingly her lipstick was not as matte as she would have hoped, most likely from all the saliva, because there are red marks encircling his girth, her own little mark left on him.

“Damn doll, c’mere.” Nick is breathless, reaching a hand out to her, his other too busy gripping the edge of the desk. When she takes it he pulls her up like she weighs nothing, rubbing her sensitive sex up his thigh and wrapping her strong arms around her waist to squeeze close. Marisol whines as  she ruts against his thigh, feels his hard cock pressing closer -- the shape of it rolling over her thigh. His tongue is gagging her, intent on her devouring her mouth whole and leaving the bitter taste of cigarette and whiskey down her throat. Her thin arms embrace him, coiling around his neck and curling a hand over the back of his head to encourage the kiss. It's a perfect moment, an iconic kiss that leaves her demanding more and more -- for  his entire body to take her over and melt into.

Thick hands loosen to grip the ends of her dress, lifting it over her wide hips to reveal her panties and tanned skin; his slick cock rubs onto her belly, a rock hard sensation over the soft dip between her thighs. His fingers create indents at her hips, squeezing their plump thickness and moving them to rut more smoothly over his thigh. When she has a steady pace Nick grabs her knee under his hand -- grip firm and bruising -- and hooks it over his hip. With a sure grasp around her he tilts them forward, her arms tightening around his head, nails scraping through his peppered hair. The guttural moan that echoes through their locked lips makes her almost cry, burning inside her heart like a wildfire.

In a quick swoosh her bottom is sitting on top of his desk, sending the lamp and loose pens to the floor. She can not stop him from pulling out of the kiss, his heaving for breaths husky on her lips, but he doesn’t allow himself to catch them, instead littering sloppy smooches down her neck, tasting her flushed skin. She bends her head back, giving him room to kiss over the middle of her neck, nipping at the sensitive skin.  His thumb rubs over the crook between the dip of her pelvis, he takes his turn to rub against her knee as she does the same against his leg still.

“Oh _mister Valentine._ ” She grins excitedly as he mouth catches on her collarbone, sucking harshly on it to leave a red mark. “On your desk? How unprofessional of you.”

“A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do dollface.” His breath is _steaming_ at her chest, snaking its way down between her cleavage.

“Mmmnnn, _yes_! Do me good Nick, don’t hold back.”

He doesn’t, reaching his hand on her hip down between her thighs, circling his rough thumb around her covered clit. “Cute lingerie, too bad I’ll have to tear them off.”

He doesn’t feel her slender fingers slide down his shoulder, his glock clicking between her slender fingers, silver a sharp contrast from her red painted nails. She holds the tip to his chest, finger on the trigger. “This may be a memory love, but I quite like these pair.” She knows they're the expensive black pair she once owned. They were disintegrated with the rest after the bombs. Call her sentimental, but no man will be ruining her favorite items.

His cock twitches against her, piercing blue eyes looking up from her chest where he has left a wet bruise. He smirks and she drops the gun to the floor as they kiss once more in a frenzy of heat and desire. One sweep of his arm and all the folders go flying  away -- a crash of more than just an half-empty glass bottle on the floor that neither of them realize. He doesn’t _tear_ her underwear off and into pieces, but does tug them away hastily for her to kick off her heel and onto the floor. God are his fingers so damn hard and coarse on her aching pussy, actually -- like a miracle-- able to take a slow moment as he rubs a middle finger up and down her quivering lips with no penetration.

“NI-ICK!” She sobs, lifting one heel onto the desk’s edge as she lays back, nose rubbing against his. He’s leaned over, supporting up on his forearm with his hand caressing her cheek as her’s is doing the same to his hair -- petting through the greys. She’s needy and sick of teasing (hooked leg over his hips revealing her flushing sex to the world), but to be so close and intimate with him, to feel his strong body against her, and have his deep eyes gaze upon her, is all worth it. Blue irises meet hazel, as if searching for something, watching the small twitches of pleasure in her face -- admiring the way his brow furrows above her.

“Oh love, you’re beautiful.” He grins, a full set of teeth that gleam in the darkness.

“ _Please.”_ She whispers against his lips, the corner of her mouth curling up into a loving smile. She needs him, loves him, wants him more than anything, so much that it _pains_ her not to have him.

He obeys, letting his thick finger slide between her, easily slithering up and down her shape. She’s sopping wet, already making a slick little noise as he smooths between her folds. Her head falls back, sucking in air at the sensation of being filled, even _if_ it’s just his finger; thighs tighten around his hand, trapping it there, feeling the hairs of his arm over her smooth skin. His finger pushing into her hole, eliciting a shaking whimper.

When her muscles clench around his finger, Nick screws his eyes shut, biting his bottom lip dangerously. His forehead pressed down on her’s and he growls. “ _Fuck babe,_ you’re so hot and _slick._ ” And when he opens his eyes she gasps.

Instead of blue she is faced to face with yellow irises and black instead of white.  His synthetic gaze, glowing in the shadows and cutting into her like a burning blade. He’s lost himself, it’s messing with the memory, altering it into something new. She hopes it isn’t something that will mess with their heads, but that's the least of her concerns as his heavy finger _painstakingly_ pulls out, and his thumb caresses her swollen clit. Her lips part with a rocky breath; his new stare scans over the fall of her sharply shaped brows.

His thumb tauntingly rolls her hard nub. “Do you like that babe?”

All she can do is nod weakly and make a strangled: “ _uh-huh.”_

And his finger _slams_ back in, rocking her body and making her back arch off the desk. She chokes on the gasp, knees smashing together as Marisol’s body convulses once, twice -- Nick’s thumb swiping over her clit for a powerful surge of ecstasy. His mouth kisses over her cleavage, finger lovingly caressing the inside of her hole and spoiling the pert nub under his thumb. It’s so damn hot in the office, loud as she gasps and sobs in sweet pleasure, body twisting under his weight. His hand is burning by just touching her, feeling as though he’ll lose himself in her as every little damp noise of her sex echos throughout the room, more than ready for something bigger.

“N-No, p-p-please! N-NO!” She begs him but he won’t obey even if her eyes are watering and her lips are tempting with every tiny keen; he slips in another finger and begins to quicken the pace, shaking his entire hand with the strength in his arm. Finger curl and he knows it’s the right spot when her nails scratch against his scalp. Those _damned_ sounds that she not only sings, but her needy cunt makes are sinful, sending waves of hot lust through his veins. He’s boiling and her calming balm of a touch is no longer so, replaced with a tingling hunger which only melts them together.

He’s had enough when she shrills wantonly and grins, licking over her fading lipstick. He once more shoves himself down her throat and she replies with wrapping both arms around his neck. Raising his hand from her slick core, Nick realizes his entire palm is wet and fingers sticky; his wrist hits the table (not wanting to wipe it)  as he stands up. Legs wrap around his waist, heated sex slipping his painful erection between her cunt -- a taste of what is to come. When hazel eyes lazily look on to him, Nick lifts his two glistening fingers to his lips, wide tongue gliding over each digit so shamelessness that Hanckcock’s lewd acts would be called tame. Anyone can say a woman’s taste was nothing special, or sweeter than honey, and Nick would have to agree with the latter, not only because he enjoys a woman’s flavor on his tongue, but it’s _her’s_ , made by her body, caused by _his_ actions, and that makes it ambrosia -- syrupy and addicting like a perfect cup of coffee in Autumn.

And he proves it to her by groaning, both digits sliding into his mouth with expertise -- practically deep throating them. Her cheeks (a dark color even under the moonlight) burn, watching hypnotically as he slurps up her essence with a shit-eating smirk that has her a mess (if she can be anymore of one). When they slip out from between his rugged lips, drenched with dripping saliva, Marisol whimpers.

“Next time,” He drawls with a tilt of his head. “I’m having the whole meal.”

In the next moment she is sitting up like a snapped rubber band, pulling him into her arms  where he happily embraces her. Chest to chest, cock trapped between her thighs, hands roaming each other’s backside as if looking for something to grab onto; his back is broad and layered with straining muscle, the arc of her back towards his body is perfect for squeezing, giving him handfuls of places to hold. The straps of his suspenders tug off his shoulders, allowing her access to pull his pants off with her legs desperately. They stay just below his hips, rustling their bodies grind over one another. Silly with heat, she does not realize one of his hands has reached between the hot brew they have made together, and the head of his erection is slipping down to her needy core.

“ _O-Oh Nick ~”_ She hisses against his lips; his hips thrust upwards and she goes jerking in the same direction slightly, the intrusion so sudden and healing. He’s thick, hard, and pulsating inside her -- she’s about to be fucked by  the man she loves.

There is no hesitation as his hips thrust into her, taking her body with him in a gentle rock back and forth. They pant over one another, eyes stuck on one another’s, smiles forming as they move as one for sweet ecstasy. She doesn’t need anyone or anything else to anchor her down to earth, not when his arm is around her waist and other gripping her raised leg over his hip; her mind is in a frenzy of hazy rapture as he massages in and out of her screaming cunt, creating wet slaps with every push. Her head falls back and his mouth is on her neck in a second, sucking gently and licking over it’s length -- flesh salty from the lustful fire between them. The pace quickens and slams down harder, a chorus of churning wetness as his skin slaps against her’s.

“ _Nick, Nick, Nick, Nick_.” She sings and chants like some sort of hymn. Her back arches over his arm, nails digging a the back of his shoulders as not only their bodies rock, but the desk as well -- lamp rocking off, draws rattling with every buck.

“Baby _yes_!”

“Heh,” He chuckles, rumbling into her torso and echoing in her throat. He huffs with every word. “The desk’s supposed to be screwed into the floorboards.” _Not anymore_.

“Screw _me_ into this desk, Valentine.” She laughs like a lost fool -- mind overtaken.

He’s kissing her now even though they should not be sparing any breath for anything else but breathing. He’s taken her whole, sending her shivering and taking what he gives: sweet release and love. There is no cool midnight air between them, no sound of cars honking outside. nor footsteps crossing the sidewalks outside his office window, there is only her and Nick Valentine: detective, gentleman, lover, and man beyond men despite now having metal for muscles and shining golden irises. Every shameful sound, disgusting little moist noise, lewd cries of each other’s name as they mold together; it comes to an end when he tightens around her, suffocating her into a crushing hold that knocks the breath out of her tired lungs until the only thing she can feel and smell is his burly frame, cigarettes, whiskey, and spice of his cologne. Her knees meet, thighs clench, his last slam into her core trapped against her as she rolls her hips, milking every small drip of hot come out of his rigid cock. She can feel every load, she counts three and his hips buck forward each time though there is nothing more of her to fill -- he practically bulges out of her.

A hand slams on to the desk, no longer needing to hold her leg up now that it’s locked around him and she jumps at the abrupt sound. He swears like sailor, her name on his tongue as if blaming and cursing her for seducing him between her thighs, and she enjoys every moment. As if to take revenge on her, his hips begin to fuck her once more, winning over the strength of her legs, pushing over the sensitivity in his spent cock. Her mouth sharpens into an ‘o’ shape and she’s gasping as the fire inside her meets it’s final crescendo, flames as high as they can reach, racing down her boiling veins towards her squirting pussy -- making a wet mess of their pelvises. His kiss is gentle, licking over her plump lips that pout in their shape, and biting down on her bottom lip that is sore and bruised.

“I love you.” Is all he says, and she grins between their kissing -- tilting her head to angle them just right.

She sighs slowly: “ _Oh, my funny Valentine_ ~”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired obviously by the song when I found  Alice Fredenham's rendition, then went on to not only add solely that to my spotify playlist, but five other versions by favorite singers Michale Buble, Frank Sinatra, Chet Baker, Sarah Vaughan, Gerry Mulligan, and my favorite (that really drove me to right) Ella Fitzgerald.
> 
> I imagined Nick as a sort of an older Harrison Ford looking dude, especially from Blade Runner, and then mixed in with some Bob Hoskins from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Not very average man sized, beefy and burly, all together american man who no one would look twice at out of fear as he smokes a cigar nearby. He's not in his prime, and if he had to be a shape, it'd be a square. I have nothing against a younger looking Nick, but I'm a sucker for rugged and tired, sad dad-looking guys. 
> 
> I wrote Nick as being a bit short and so mid way through I started laughing because I began picturing him on his toes fucking her HA
> 
> This went un-beta'd by anyone else but me; hmu on my Twitter UnChicaBonita, or tumblr MissEccentric


End file.
